Best Women's Erotica of the Year Volume 3 Read online

  Copyright © 2017 by Rachel Kramer Bussel.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

  Published in the United States by Cleis Press, an imprint of Start Midnight, LLC, 101 Hudson St, Suite 3705, Jersey City, NJ 07302.

  Printed in the United States.

  Cover design: Scott Idleman/Blink

  Cover photograph: iStock

  Text design: Frank Wiedemann

  First Edition.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Trade paper ISBN: 978-1-62778-224-1

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-225-8

  CONTENTS

  Introduction: Doing What Feels “Right,” from Sex Tapes to Bondage and Beyond

  The Birthday Gift • ABIGAIL BARNETTE

  Weightless • RACHEL WOE

  Demon Purse • SOMMER MARSDEN

  Body Shots • THIEN-KIM LAM

  A Love Affair All My Own • R. J. RICHARDSON

  The Follow-Through • KRIS ADAMS

  A Matter of Trust • ANGELL BROOKS

  Romance and Drag • LYLA SAGE

  Watch Me Come Undone • AUGUST MCLAUGHLIN

  Falling • CHARLIE POWELL

  Bibliophile • DEE BLAKE

  After the Heist • AYA DE LEON

  Overexposed • BRANDY FOX

  A Stolen Story • LEANDRA VANE

  Tanked • LYNN TOWNSEND

  Guyliner and Garters • B. B. SANCHEZ

  The Skin of Someone Else • CHARLOTTE STEIN

  Red Satin Ribbons • TAMSIN FLOWERS

  Through the Lens • EMMANUELLE DE MAUPASSANT

  Infused Leather • DR. J.

  Making It Feel Right • ANNABEL JOSEPH

  About the Authors

  About the Editor

  INTRODUCTION:

  DOING WHAT FEELS “RIGHT,” FROM SEX TAPES TO BONDAGE AND BEYOND

  One of the great joys of editing the Best Women’s Erotica of the Year series is discovering with each volume how sexy, outrageous, and powerful the characters in the stories sent to me truly are. I consider them fierce role models who don’t let anyone else dictate how they should behave, in bed and out, and in this third volume, every story features a woman who in some way defies our culture’s expectations that we all be “good girls” who grow up to be women who behave, conform, and don’t make too much of a fuss about sex.

  These women make a fuss—and they are greatly rewarded for their leaps of faith when it comes to having the kinds of sex they want, with the lovers they prefer, on their own terms. Perhaps they make a sex tape, something considered the ultimate scarlet letter in our society (see pretty much every article about Kim Kardashian), as Sophie does as a gift to her husband, Neil, in Abigail Barnette’s sizzling opening story, “The Birthday Gift.” It’s very clear that while this is indeed a present that he’s extremely eager to open, Sophie’s tape is as much a gift to herself as it is for him.

  The women you’ll read about in these pages defy cultural expectations, both their own and the ones set by those around them. They don’t shrink into the background to be bit players in someone else’s drama or kowtow to the urges and desires of those who make unwanted advances. Instead, they stand up for themselves, figuring out the kind of sex and desire that will truly fulfill them, whether that involves Zoe getting over a breakup in “Weightless,” by Rachel Woe, or Anouk claiming the real object of her heart’s affection in R. J. Richardson’s beautiful lesbian erotic story, “A Love Affair All My Own.”

  They take dressing up to a whole new level, whether it’s Halloween costumes as Cinna from The Hunger Games and Agent Carter in “Guyliner and Garters,” by B. B. Sanchez, the lesbian couple riffing on the soccer star and cheerleader in “After the Heist,” by Aya de Leon, or the makeup artistry that leads to some very spirited dirty talk in “Demon Purse,” by Sommer Marsden. Lyla Sage’s “Romance and Drag” turns gender norms on their heads as both halves of a couple don alternate genders and personas that are as vital to their sexuality as the ones they were born into.

  They take their curiosity, whether for an old-time tale come to life in “A Stolen Story,” by Leandra Vane, or the bookish fetish of Dee Blake’s “Bibliophile,” and don’t just wonder what if, but live out their fantasies. They pursue partners whom the rest of society may look down upon, judging without a thought to the core of humanity in all of us, and instead, they let their own preconceived notions get upended. It’s a beautiful unfolding, the moment when a real, live, gorgeous person with their own passions and desires becomes more than just a label, as you’ll read about in the tender and heartfelt “Overexposed,” by Brandy Fox, and the deliciously wicked “Making It Feel Right,” by Annabel Joseph.

  These authors also prove that desire doesn’t fade with age, and that older women, such as Janelle, the heroine of “The Follow-Through,” by Kris Adams, are proud and powerful enough to know exactly the kind of mate they want next to them.

  For those who’ve navigated the drama of dating, wondering if you’ll be stuck with someone who bores you to tears or someone who makes every cell in your body perk up, you’ll find a bit of yourself in “Falling,” by Charlie Powell, in which the narrator grapples with how much to trust her new partner, and finds that sharing all of herself leads to the joy of delivering lines like, “I can keep quiet…but having my mouth full makes it easier.” Powell also seamlessly weaves in her narrator’s disability as part of their first date conversation, part of their process of getting to know each other.

  Her debate over how much of herself to reveal to a new partner is similar to that of Cassidy in kinky bondage erotica tale “A Matter of Trust,” by Angell Brooks, as she has to decide just how far she wants to let her longtime friend go with her, and how the dynamics of being tied up will or won’t change their relationship. Will she obey her “begging slut of a clit”? Keep reading to find out.

  There are stories here that I hope make you swoon, and others that might make you a little uncomfortable. These are not all pretty, perky narratives of oral sex and orgasms, or role-play and bondage, though there’s plenty of all these. “Infused Leather,” by Dr. J., tackles the topic of sexual abuse as its heroine discovers a way to overcome her past and make her current fetish one that leaves her utterly smitten, while also showcasing just how hot having an inanimate object to fixate on can be. In “Watch Me Come Undone” by August McLaughlin, one of several stories here that play with photography, a woman struggles with the weight of infidelity, balancing her deepest desires with her deepest love.

  The women whose stories are gathered in this book don’t have to leave their true selves behind to live out their sexual fantasies. Rather, they take their unique quirks, talents, and personalities and bring them into their erotic games, whether it’s the perfectionism of Kit in “Body Shots,” by Thien-Kim Lam, the curiosity that compels the bold narrator to go after a stranger in “The Skin of Someone Else,” by Charlotte Stein, or the combined cynicism, cunning, and arousal of the heroine in “Through the Lens,” by Emmanuelle de Maupassant. In “Tanked,” by Lynn Townsend, Jory brings the full history of her relationship along on an arousing overnight sexual journey with her husband as they celebrate their anniversary in a way they never have before.

  Many of these stories made me question whether I have anything in common with the women starring in them. Would I ever let myself be stowed in a box tied up in shibari (a style of Japa
nese bondage) with “Red Satin Ribbons,” as Leah does in the story by Tamsin Flowers, presenting my body as a gift to a woman I didn’t even know? I’m not sure, but I loved taking the ride right along with her.

  These twenty-one all-new stories run the gamut, from down and dirty adventures to swoon-worthy erotic love, with all sorts of nuances, fetishes, turn-ons, challenges, and first times. They take us through many of the ways women celebrate their bodies, understand their desires, come to terms with what turns them on, and figure out how to make their relationships work on every level. Most of all they are hot, and, I hope, they are tales that you’ll return to again and again when you want to relive these intimate, sexy moments. I’d love to hear what you thought of these stories, and what you’d like to see more of in future volumes; you can reach me at [email protected] and visit bweoftheyear.com to find out more about the series.

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  Atlantic City, New Jersey

  THE BIRTHDAY GIFT

  Abigail Barnette

  “Happy birthday!”

  My husband—and, as of two minutes ago, the birthday boy—Neil, blinked up at me in the dim light of the bedside lamp.

  “What’s wrong?” He rose on one elbow and reached toward his nightstand, groping around for his glasses.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I assured him. “I just wanted to be the very first person to wish you a happy fifty-third birthday!”

  He covered his eyes with one hand. “No, don’t do that. If we lie here quietly, it might ignore us and go away.”

  I gave him a little shove. “Stop. Birthdays are fun. And I have a present I want to give you. I think you’ll like it.”

  He slid his glasses on and looked me over. I hadn’t gone to bed at ten, when he had. Instead, I’d waited for him to fall asleep, then got dressed up in my pearly white Bordelle Kinbaku bodice bra and webbed garter belt. I’d put on shimmery pink-gold gloss and smoky eye makeup, and curled my dark hair. Now I looked a far cry from the wife who’d sat around the house barefaced in yoga pants and a ponytail all day.

  “What have you gotten all done up for?” he asked, his suspicion growing.

  “I told you. It’s your birthday present.” I leaned down and left a kiss mark on his stubbly cheek. “Meet me in the media room in fifteen minutes.”

  I didn’t give him any further explanation.

  Our media room was kind of like a movie theater, if movie theaters had a sunken pit that was basically one big bed instead of seats. The giant throw pillows were great for propping yourself up on or snuggling into. Or for positioning various parts during sex. I used them to arrange myself so that when Neil walked through the door, the first thing he’d see would be me, dressed in practically nothing at all, legs spread.

  And his birthday present between them.

  He seemed way more awake when he entered, but it still took him a moment to figure out what, exactly, he was looking at. “Is that a painting?”

  I looked down to the small, sleek frame I held between my thighs. “Sort of? It’s a print, I guess you would say.”

  “Why are you straddling it?” He stepped down but didn’t sit on the comfy sunken floor. Crossing his arms and tilting his head, he frowned at the picture. I didn’t blame him for taking a minute to guess what it depicted. The real thing wasn’t usually painted in rainbow slashes of hot pink and aqua blue. When he finally did get it, his mouth fell slightly open. “Is that . . . ?”

  I pulled the frame up, revealing my bare vulva—the subject of the picture—behind it. “Ta-da!”

  He sat beside me and took the frame, laughing. “Finally, something good came of your Pinterest obsession.”

  “Um, no. I did not find this on Pinterest. That would be like, Pinterest After Dark.” I leaned against his arm. “This was Gena’s idea.”

  “Oh?” His eyebrows rose.

  Our marriage wasn’t sexually monogamous, and we were both pretty cool with each other having the occasional fling with one of our regular lovers. In my case, that lover was Gena. I got a zing down my spine just thinking of her. An absolutely gorgeous redhead with the body of a goddess out of a Renaissance painting, she and I had first hooked up in a swinging situation. It was supposed to have been a simple partner swap. As it turned out, Gena and I were way more interested in each other than we were the guys.

  She’s also an artist. Besides working for a successful gallery, she’s started her own studio on the second floor of her apartment. Her latest project had inspired both of us.

  “Yeah. Remember when you were in Reykjavik and I spent the weekend with her?” I asked Neil, gesturing to the print. “That’s what we got up to.”

  He looped an arm around my back and kissed the top of my head. “I love it, darling. It’s truly beautiful.”

  That was it? Just that it was beautiful? “You’re not wondering why I woke you up in the middle of the night to give it to you?”

  “Well, I can see why you wouldn’t want to give this to me at dinner with your mother tonight,” he began.

  Before he could say anything else, I held up the remote control. “We taped it.”

  “Oh . . . ” was all he managed.

  I love it when I can catch him off guard.

  I hit the button to lower the lights then pointed the remote at the high-def projector above our heads. “Happy birthday, baby.”

  Even though I’d seen the video before—and was there, participating, when it was filmed—I got butterflies in my vagina when I saw myself on the screen.

  “This is . . . Sophie,” Gena purred from behind the camera. “Of course, you already knew that, didn’t you, Neil?”

  On the screen, I covered my face and giggled. I’d been lying on the massage table she kept in her studio, like all of her other subjects had. Unlike those people, however, I’d been completely naked.

  “And today, we are going to make you a birthday present,” Gena went on, chipper and clinical as I laughed.

  I turned my attention to Neil. He still held the picture, his thumb slowly stroking the edge of the thin platinum frame as he gazed at the screen in stunned silence.

  With a little blurring, the image adjusted. Now, the camera captured only what was between my thighs. She’d propped each of my legs on foam bolsters, keeping my knees up and apart with my feet resting on the table. My vulva was totally on display, spread and waiting.

  My view from the table had been a lot better; Gena had worked totally nude except for a smock held closed only by a single button. Every movement had parted the fabric, giving me flashes of her creamy skin, her full breasts, her soft thighs.

  Gena asked, “Okay. Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” I heard myself answer.

  “And you’re going to be able to hold still?” she asked.

  “No promises.”

  Neil set the painting aside and gestured to his pajama bottoms. “Would you mind terribly if I . . . ?”

  The request, delivered in his polite English accent, made me laugh. “I would be offended if you didn’t.”

  He pushed the sleep pants down, revealing his already interested cock.

  In the video, Gena’s hand came into view, holding a paintbrush stained with her specialty “ink,” a body-safe combo of water-based food coloring and lubricant. The paintbrush was about a half-inch wide, with flat, square bristles. I remembered the anticipation of the moment, the need to be touched by something after waiting, vulnerable, in the cold studio, and the shock when the brush finally made contact. When it finally had, my vagina had clenched. It was shockingly visible on the screen.

  Neil’s hand slowly stroked his stiffening cock, and I couldn’t tell what I wanted to watch more, his reaction or my filmed adventure with Gena.

  “You have to work lightest to darkest,” she said patiently on the video. Her art-instructor tone had driven me wild then, and it was getting me super hot, now. “So I’m starting with this light pink, up and down either side . . . ”

  She’d dr
awn the brush down my waxed-bare outer labia, stopping to reapply the lube to the brush and repeat as the pink-tinged liquid had rolled down my skin.

  When she leaned forward to wipe away the puddle on the table, the top curve of her breast showed on the screen, and Neil took an audible breath.

  “And I got to touch them. All weekend,” I gloated playfully.

  Onscreen, Gena moved on to the next color. “I think this . . . ”—she held up a small glass dish of vibrant magenta— “will look fantastic. What do you think, Sophie?”

  “I think you need to keep going.” I’d been so sexually frustrated by just those small touches, my teeth had clenched.

  “I will. Don’t be bossy.” She used the same brush, taking her time dipping it and swirling it through the color. This time, she concentrated on my inner labia, skating the brush down the frilled edges. My softly uttered, “Oh, god,” could be heard in the background.

  The way it felt had been indescribable. Even now, my fingers wandered south with tentative touches, trying to replicate the feeling. It was a futile exercise. Gena’s focused attention had been what made the experience so wild.

  Not that it wasn’t erotic watching it on the screen. Or watching Neil watch it. It was just different. And different wasn’t necessarily all that bad.

  I reached over and covered Neil’s big hand with my own around his cock. His gaze never strayed from the video.

  Gena glided the bristles into the fold between my inner and outer labia, dragging almost up to my clit but stopping just short before gliding down again.

  I couldn’t believe I hadn’t broken the “no moving” policy. The fact that it would have spoiled Neil’s birthday gift had been the only reason I hadn’t.

  “This feels like more painting than is strictly necessary,” I heard myself say on the recording.

  “You have to use a lot, or else it will dry before you get a good print. And if a job is worth doing, it’s worth doing right,” Gena said patiently as she repeated the motion on the other side. The lube made my skin glimmer on camera, but the sheen of wetness at the opening of my vagina was all mine. She parted my folds with her fingers, one on each side of my swollen, straining clit. “I’m thinking . . . blue, for this.”